When Come Hell Or High Water Know
by KayMoon24
Summary: Sequel to 'When In Hell, Do As The Demons' Do' Whilst recovering from his recent operation, Watson- and Holmes, embark to find the missing James Gladstone! But will Holmes growing jealously over Watson's focus on James..suddenly turn into something more?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! Thank you for tuning in for this exciting **_**sequel**_** to '~*When In Hell…*~'. I do realize that I probably COULD have kept this as one single story, but I figured, since I am no longer necessarily focusing on Watson **_**in his mind**_**; and more so the mystery of James and Holmes', -*coughs* **_**jealously**_**- that I should put it into it's own little feature! And with that..we begin…  
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**~*When Come Hell or High Water; Know- You're Going To Get Wet *~**  
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~*The Chapter Where No One Seems To Get Enough Sleep*~**

**Prologue….**_just a day prior to Watson's notes…_

The dawn sunlight falling across the glossy wooden floors of Watson's bedroom reviled only two figures to be occupying it. One, laying softly across the bed, his chest rising and falling in an orderly fashion; the sheets undisturbed around his body, his face and mustache neatly trimmed. The other held up in a chair beside the bed, his body twisted and balled up- much like a black cat. His dark hair twisting and sticking out with it's odds and ins- stubble lining his jaw.

Down the carpeted stairs, across the darken kitchen and straightly into the cleaned sitting room, a soft knock sounded at the wooden front door of flat 221A, which traveled to the keen ears of the sleeping bulldog. Gladstone aroused and padded to the door, before sitting on his haunches, and tilting his head to the side.

The knock continued, _tap-tap-tap_, and a soft voice called from the outside. "Hello? Mr. Holmes? It's me- Natalie Gladstone? I do know it's early but…"

The dog did not listen to any more- he simply turned on his heels and made his way to the stairs, a soft growl parting his jaws. This growl, though slow, and quiet- caused a huge reaction of air particles to smash into one another and travel up the beautifully crafted stair banister, and up to flat 221B, and straight into the vigilant ears of Sherlock Holmes. The black cat untangled himself from about the chair, yawning.

"Watson, I do believe your dog wants you."

No response. Holmes glanced over and realized just how deeply asleep Watson still was. Holmes stretched again, shielding his dark eyes from the light. _Mrs. Hudson will see to it…_Holmes sleepily reminded himself, and he continued sinking back into his own warmth. A few moments of utter peace, and of watching the weightless dust particles do an intricate dance long the streaming sunlight across the hardwood floors; and Holmes was once again asleep.

Down below, more silent growling turned into whining as the knocking continued, and a loud bark sounded and bounced off the pictured lined walls- causing Holmes to fall from his perch in surprise.

Cursing softly to himself, Holmes got drowsily to his feet.

"I don't care what you think..," Holmes leaned over to Watson's sleeping form, and whispered. "She's incredibly unreliable!

Making his way down the stairs, his bare feet protesting with the flooring, he opened the door that was being knocked on continuously. Standing in front of him, bathed beautifully in morning light, Mrs. Gladstone stood.

"Ah! Mr. Holmes, good morning! I was-" Holmes rubbed his face, his eyes' painfully stinging from the light as she talked.

"-You were just about to collect your baked goods." The grouchy detective finished for her.

The young woman looked ataken back, and glanced down nervously.

"Why…yes…yes I was..and so I thought I'd stop by."

"You get your pies from the pie shop on Fleet street." It wasn't a question.

"How did you-?"

"There's abit of flour on your dress, and encrusted around your ring finger- should really take better care of that, love. Also, there's the slightest bit of the scent of shaving cream of a barber- no doubt from a barber's lodgings there. And Fleet street's pie shop is the only one that carries a barber's touch."

Mrs. Gladstone was taking back. "Y-yes. They are very nice people."

"Indeed." Holmes concluded, wondering _if he still had time to retract back inside before she-_

"But I don't actually buy my pies from here." Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"I help out there, sometimes. The woman that runs the shop is my friend."

"Ah, well do forgive me madam, I just woke up." Holmes answered. "I stand corrected." _I wonder where my hat is..so bloody bright.._

"Yes they-" Holmes cut her off.

"Mrs. Gladstone..do you've any idea what time it is?" Mrs. Gladstone placed her hands on her hips.

"I do, in fact, Mr. Holmes- do _you_?"

"I try not too, usually."

"Yes well, I'm terribly sorry to wake you in this time of awakening for _most_ daytime dwelling creatures."

"Yes, well, I suppose it's alittle late for that. Come in, come in, would you?" Mrs. Gladstone walked carefully through the door and into the clean sitting room.

"Much too bright out there." Holmes commented again.

Natalie sat quietly on the couch, cooed to the attention craving Gladstone. Holmes walked into the kitchen to make tea, and he over heard Mrs. Gladstone scratch the lazy dog's ears and giggle: "It's so kind, for Mr. Watson to name you after my beloved James."

Suddenly Holmes lost his grip on the cups, and dropped them to the floor; where they shattered into hundreds of intricate pieces- a dancing mess of a beautiful disaster. A strange feeling wrapped up around his brain, and he suddenly felt extremely…._jealous_. _What?_ Holmes thought; quickly scooping down and picking up the pieces before Nanny would find out, and discarding them. _Jealous? Ridiculous? Of what? How.._

Holmes quickly filled two new cups, and brought them out to Natalie, but Holmes suddenly could not find her. Twisting to look up towards the stair, he heard the woman's soft footsteps, and he quickly ran to meet her.

"Mrs. Gladstone- is it such accustom wonder about one's home?"

She stopped at Watson's door, and turned back to Holmes, who had with held himself from touching Natalie, and was simply using his voice to stop her.

"Please, may I see him, Mr. Holmes?"

Inside the room, whilst Holmes and Natalie talked, Watson stirred. Every muscle sore, but yet feeling stronger than yesterday. He glanced and was halfway in shock to not find Holmes asleep in the chain beside him.

_Even more peculiar_, thought Watson, _that Holmes be up when the sun is just breaking.._

Suddenly Watson stopped mid-thought and he slowly moved himself so he could better hear the voice outside his door..

"Please Mrs. Gladstone! The man's has been operated on- I just don't think.."

_Operated..?_ Watson furrowed his brows together weakly, and he tried to rise. He couldn't make out much of the conversation going on, but he knew he had heard that word.

Mrs. Gladstone raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but it's been quite a few days or so, and considering that I paid for that entire deal, I think when I wish to see him, I should see him!"

"Mrs. Gladstone, I truly do understand, but from what the doctors have told me, with his loss of blood he just shouldn't be bombard-" Mrs. Gladstone narrowed her dark eyes at Holmes.

"Not, not that you are bombard-," Holmes quickly placed his hand on the bridge of his nose. "What- what I am trying to say is, Watson has better days, and days were he is worse for ware and-"

"And today?" Natalie said, quickly ended Holmes' stumbling.

Watson listened closely as Holmes abruptly paused through the door.

"I am…uncertain. But I do believe he is resting now."

"Mm.." Mrs. Gladstone said, "It's sweet how much you care for you friend," Her dark eyes flashed, "But I have been waiting _years_ to see the person I care about just as well! So _please_ Mr. Holmes."

Holmes sighed, and then placed his hand on the brass handle. _I suppose the woman is right, but..what did she mean by 'just as well'?_ The door opened to revel Watson standing, and almost immediately Mrs. Gladstone gave a gasp of surprise, and she threw her arms around the doctor.

"Hello…ma'am?" Wide eyed Watson stumbled out, bracing himself against the doorway as Natalie continued embracing him.

"Oh Dr. Watson, I am SO happy to see you are well! You have no idea how long, how long I've waited, and waited-" Watson quickly glanced at Holmes, who seemed just a surprised at Watson felt.

"Uh, er, that's so very kind, Miss..?" Suddenly Natalie froze, and pulled back from Watson, an embarrassed look across her face.

"Oh, oh my. I am _so_ sorry! Did you…do..you..not remember me?" Holmes' eyes widened and he quickly stopped between the two, nervous.

"Remember you? I don't think I've ever even met-"

"You've met her husband, though!" Holmes interrupted, grasping Watson's shoulder and guiding everyone down the stairs. "-Do be careful of Gladstone-" (once more, remembering the fact that Watson named his dog over a beloved person in his life, gave Holmes an…_interesting_ feeling..luckily, this time, he had no tea-cups to break.)

Leading the pair to the sitting room, Holmes served the rest of the tea.

"You see, Mrs. Gladstone has come to us in search of her husband- James Gladstone? The same man the possessed the necklace that you now have, Watson. I promised that we would find young Gladstone; as I have to Mrs. Gladstone."

"Truly?" Watson's blue eyes steeled to Natalie's dark gaze. "You are married to James?"

Natalie only simply nodded in awe- the prospect of meeting another person that had known James, and seen him alive all these years was beyond incredible. And now that Watson was _awake_…well..

"Dr. Watson, please, I _must_ ask, but when was the last time you saw James?" Watson glanced nervously at Holmes.

"Well, it's been _years_, Mrs. Gladstone. And believe me, I am also thoroughly shocked to- to even know- my God," Watson clasped a hand on his knee, "How did you two _meet_? I thought- I always thought-"

"That he was dead?" Natalie finished quietly. Watson stopped, and sank further into his chair.

"Yes…sadly."

A slight silence filled the room, and Holmes quickly cleared his throat.

"Yes well, I think the question to really start off with here, Mrs. Gladstone, is when did _you_ last see your husband?"

Natalie grimaced for a moment, and turn her head, her long hair swirling with her.

"It was..seven years ago..and, I-…he….," she tried again, "We- we were at the docks- here. In London. He, he told me that- before his brother died..he had told him of a secret place. Where there was apparently money."

Natalie closed her eyes, tears suddenly welling up. "I..I….you gentleman have no idea- how I _begged _him not to go. Apparently his family was entitled to some fortune- and I tried so- s-so hard, to tell him that I _didn't care_ about the money! But…"

"But he left anyway." Holmes concluded, pulling out his pipe and lilting it. "May I ask Mrs. Gladstone- why didn't you go with him to this," Holmes waved his hand about looking for the proper word. "Secret place?"

Natalie suddenly looked up at Holmes from under her dark lashes, and a strange ominous feeling filled the room. Holmes, not usually one to be shaken, continued smoking. His dark eyes watching intently. Watson, on the other hand, couldn't help but fidget in the gloom.

"I was pregnant, at the time, if you must know, Mr. Holmes. And James- he..he was also so protective of me. I suppose..from the loss of his brother. Only family he had, you know. He refused to let me step on board."

Watson folded his hands together, and stared at the wall, seeming to look through Mrs. Gladstone.  
Holmes stopped smoking for a second, and watched the smoke ring waver to the ceiling.

"I..lost the baby shortly after. It was…_heart breaking_…you see.." Natalie said very, very quietly.

"I am.._terribly_ sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gladstone." Watson said carefully, and to the surprise of Holmes, whom had thought the doctor wasn't listening from the look on his face.

"When was James suppose to return, Mrs. Gladstone?" Holmes said tactlessly, stepping back into the subject at hand.

"He said he would be gone three days- at best. But…"

"He never returned." Holmes concluded once more. Watson sighed, and whilst folding and un- folding his hands, coughed softly which let into a deeper bout of coughing. Abruptly alarmed, Holmes did away with the smoke, cursing himself for not being more careful.

"Mrs. Gladstone..," Watson began once his fit was done, "If I may be so…bold as to say..what gives you any evidence that.." Watson led the question drop like a stone at his feet.

Holmes suddenly remembered something. Something obvious that he should have seen long before.

"You both agree that James' brother is deceased, correct?" His dark eyes' speculated.

Watson shifted quickly, his eyes narrowing painfully for a moment. "I..I saw it myself. Shot in the chest. No way he could have survived such internal damage and loss of blood."

Natalie solemnly nodded.

Holmes' eyes suddenly lit up.

"Well then, I do believe that I just met a man that claimed.." his dark eyes wondered from Natalie's to Watson's. "..that _he_ was the elder brother to a man once at war. And that'd be all right and well. But this man- all about his wealthy establishment- has pictures, and crests, of birds with stones. Leading me to believe that he took apon the former last name of _Gladstone_."

"_I-impossible_!" Watson and Natalie said at the same time, gripping the arms of their chairs. Holmes looked around, rather amused by the impeccable timing.

"Possibly." Holmes brooded. "I could have been mistaken. Many details throw off such a conclusion, besides- what was his name- James' brother?"

"Walter." Watson added.

"Yes, besides just Walter's death. I met this man a few nights ago, and he seemed to have this..interesting grudge, or animosity, towards you Watson."

Watson's eyes' widened, and his raised an eyebrow. "Towards me? How strange…what was this man's name?"

"Morrlows, was the man's last name." Holmes said, leading off into thought.

Suddenly Watson's eyes went wide.

"And you say this man has an intense disliking for me, Holmes?"

"Well, he nearly, and quite literally, threw me out of his home for mentioning your name- he-"

"No.." Watson said in soft disbelief. Natalie set her depthful eyes on Watson.

"You…don't think..that..that was..Walter's murderer…"

"Hm?" Holmes turned to Watson, breaking his train of thought.

"Walter didn't just….die..at war. He was murdered. The surgeon general of our camp..was a _monster_."

Natalie gasped, and then suddenly was on her feet in a fury. "You're right! He's right- Doctor Watson you are absolutely right! Or at least now I know you've for certain met my James-James told me that same memory before as well- and James doesn't tell just _anyone_ that!"

Holmes raised both his brows in surprise at the petite woman's enthusiasm, but Watson remained very still.

"Now, now, we've still not too much proof on this man and of who he is." Holmes said, stepping carefully around the room, thinking still.

"but perhaps- if we could meet him once more without such," Holmes paused. "..resentment.."

"No to worry, not to worry. We'll just…have to meet this man. Somehow. Do you have his address?"

Holmes quickly listed off the address for her, and in a flash, Natalie was on her way.

"It's a start. I've waited years for any type of evidence, and I'm not letting this get away. I think it's best we set an arrangement to meet .." Natalie said, bending down to pet Gladstone one more time. Giving a quick goodbye to the two men, she went out the door, and Holmes suddenly turned back to the angry glare of Watson.

"You just _had_ to propose an arrangement of meeting a man that potentially wants me _dead_?" Watson said sternly; his mustache twitching.

"Oh, be right about yourself, old boy. No one said _you _had to come."

**Hehe. Do forgive the 'Sweeney Todd' Referance..I just _couldn't_ help myself! Thank you for reading! Oh yes, and further warning; just in case it is not the fancy of some readers? WARNING: Here be Holmes/Watson - Shwatsonlock, hehe. I do think, that it won't get slashy at all. Just my mindless fluffyness. And because I simply can. And I will. ^.^ ~ Kay**


	2. Chapter 2

**~*The Chapter Where Fleet Street Is Not An Option*~**

The evening starlight spilled easily over the sitting room, now that the crackling fireplace had long flickered out. The bulldog lay lazily at his master's feet, and Holmes' soft biting of the end of his pipe was driving Watson to near insanity.

"Holmes."

The detective smoothly, and quickly moved his head in Watson's direction.

"Yes?"

"Would you _please_ stop that?"

"Stop what?" Holmes inquired, his teeth clicking on the end of his pipe once more.

"That. The pipe biting! The _clicking_! It's not even lit!" Watson's blue eyes pierced the darkness that Holmes' eyes disappeared into.

"Oh." Was all Holmes simply responded with, and he took the pipe from his mouth. "I didn't even realize I was doing it. Going to leave marks on the wood. Blasted thing."

Watson sighed, placing his hands on either side of his head. "Yes well, you've not been noticing yourself do that for the past two _hours_."

Holmes looked surprised. "You've been counting?"

"Of course, not much else to do."

Holmes suddenly looked around the room as if he had just now realized it was dark.

"Watson, what time is it?"

"What time is it now- since you've been standing there, staring out the window? It's now half past ten. If I'm not mistaken."

"Right.." Holmes murmured, traversing the room quickly, to then only sit in front of Watson in the opposite facing armchair. "So then, now that enough time has gone past, what is your final answer?"

"I'm going, Holmes. It hasn't changed."

Holmes quickly screwed up his face, his dark brows narrowing. "_No_! No, Watson, reaching that answer once more wasn't the point of the solitude of silence!"

"I didn't realize the silence even _had_ relevance." Watson said blandly.

Holmes ran one of his nimble hands down his face. "Watson, I once more cannot express how much I do _not _wish for you come with Mrs. Gladstone and I to the dinner."

Watson sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. Ever since Mrs. Gladstone had come back with the news of a formal dinner to be held by Mr. Morrlows, Holmes had jumped at any chance to shut down Watson not going, much to Watson's own resentment.

"Holmes, regardless of your reasoning for my recovery, I simply cannot possibly sit around here knowing my flatmate and a young women will be at the mercy of a _murderer_."

Holmes nodded, but would not budge. "That is understood my dear fellow, but considering such a circumstance, would _you _be able to keep control?"

Watson looked ataken back. "Me? I can keep perfect control Holmes."

Holmes reached over and clinked his hands along the smooth glass of his well-loved chemistry set- his pale fingers twisting and turning into abstract, ghostly shapes.

"Can you?"

"_Yes_." Watson leaned in intensely. "I can."

Holmes turn his dark eyes to Watson and knew it was a fool's gamble to spend the rest of the night arguing and think he would win. Watson could be as stubborn as the detective, if he wanted too.

"So this is really happening then, Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes, this is."

Holmes leaned back in his armchair, thinking for a moment, his eyes studying Watson. The good doctor tried his best not to shift in his seat, feeling very much like a dissected animal- to save the embarrassment, Watson finally snapped back at Holmes: "What are you looking at?"

_You_ _Looking at, you looking at_- those words hit the back of Holmes tinkering mind with a force he didn't expect and his heart did small miss-beat. His pupils turning smaller in his coal eyes. This moment all happened in a single second, so Holmes easily answered Watson as if nothing odd had ever occurred.

"Did you have any noticeable attributes from the war that you still possess today? Hair color?" Holmes glanced at Watson from the out of the corner of this eye. "_Mustache_, perhaps?"

Watson looked utterly startled, and a hand flew to cover his mouth. "M-my mustache? Well..I suppose I had it back then, yes."

Holmes grinned a sly smile. "Well I am terribly sorry to inform you, my dear fellow, but it'll need to go."

Watson's surprised eyes narrowed into pinpoints of anger. "_Shave_ my mustache? You're barking mad!"

Holmes repositioned himself in his armchair, his hands coming together into the familiar pose of fingertip to fingertip touch- thinking.

"I know you rather treasure it, but since you refuse to stay here, it's the price you'll have to pay. You being deceased or not, this 'General' man has gotten away with murder, and considering my last confrontation sparked such spite out of him, I wouldn't put it passed that he is now on the look out for you and is extremely distrustful of anyone. If he notices even one thing off about you Watson- or myself- we could putting Mrs. Gladstone, and our lives in a very real, and near, danger. It needs to go."

Watson slowly slid his hand down his face, the anger in his blue eyes dying and smoldering out like a melting candle of ice. Then he sighed into his palm. _Goddamn Holmes. He's right._

Holmes smiled and cheerfully tapped Watson's shoulder. "There's a good fellow, now, as for the removal, I am thinking of taking you to the new barber near by-"

Watson quickly snapped his head in Holmes direction. "You don't possibly mean the one on Fleet street, do you?"

Holmes' eyebrows raised in surprise. "Why yes, I indeed did. Is there something wrong with such a place?"

Watson ran his fingers through his hair nervously, letting out a held breath he himself didn't know he was holding. "There's nothing wrong with the place itself. It's the man there."

Holmes dark eyes looked curiously to Watson's. "The _barber_?"

"He's…rather….odd." Watson replied slowly, mumbling into his hand once more.

"Odd?" Holmes laughed a rare laugh. "Watson, I find that rather mean of you!"

Watson quickly turned to Holmes, a mischievous grin suddenly lighting his features. "Yes, well I suppose you rather would. I imagine you and him would get along quite nicely."

Holmes waved Watson's observation away with a pale hand. "Alright, alright, fine- you shan't go there. I'll just buy you a razor, so you may try yourself."

"Thank you," Watson said, rising from his chair-

"I really don't know what you're complaining about!" Holmes continued. "Your mustache will come back in a month's time, at _least_. It'll take forever to get this ridiculous colour out of my hair."

Watson agilely snatched up the bottle off of Holmes' mirriorstand. "Huh, blonde. You're offending the yellow haired population Holmes! 'Ridiculous'! And _I'm_ the one being mean?"

Holmes quickly grabbed the bottle back, turning it around delicately with his long fingers.

"It's- it's just unnatural. It's my eyes-,my eye colour, Watson? It's preposterously dark for someone to still have such light hair. I'm afraid it'll easily be caught on too."

Watson simply rolled his eyes.

"Your whole _being_, is unnatural- if you want to get too terribly technical, old boy."

"Ha, ha-" Holmes gruffed sarcastically. "Very humorous."

Watson slyly grinned in return.

_Later, the next morning…_

Mumbling to herself as she made her way up the 221A's stairs and entering the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson could not understand the odd requests of the two gentlemen she housed. Making her way up the flat's stairs, she entered into Watson's cleanly room; only to discover Watson standing over his mirror, a sad look apon his face.

"I have the razor, you requested." Mrs. Hudson said softly, molding to Watson's sad mood.

Holmes suddenly appeared from out of Watson's closet, a lithe smile apon his face, as he took the sharp object from the landlady's hand.

"Wonderful, simply wonderful." He then turned to Watson. "Here you are, old chap."

Watson's eyes went wide as he took the razor, and Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow.

"Get to it." Holmes grinned, watching Watson's intently. Suddenly, Watson turned, and gripped Holmes 'round the neck- pulling open the bleach bottle with his teeth, and pouring it into the bowl placed apon the floor- he then shoved Holmes' head into it- "Why don't _you_ get to it!"

Mrs. Hudson quickly left the room, as the noises of the two men scrabbling went on, and on in a huge ruckus, telling herself over and over: _I just __don't__ want to know._

**So sorry for the short chapter and the delayy! CRAZYNESS GOING ON HERE- plumbing troubles, forced parties, crazy parents..apologies! Apologies! I shall release the two longer, new chapters BY tomorrow night!**


	3. Chapter 3

**(DELAYS! DELAYS! DELAYS! I fail as a date keeper- read all about it…)  
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**~*The Chapter Where Watson Has…Abit ****Too**** Much*~**

"You, look _gorgeous_." Watson chuckled out sarcastically, bowing to Holmes, as the anxious detective stepped from the bathroom, baring only a towel about his waist. Holmes flinched and walked dripply to the mirror in the bathroom, his gray eyes inspecting the damage. His once dark, matted, twisted, and unruly hair now turned to golden curls. He ran a slender, pale hand through the seemly cursed locks- and then quickly shut his eyes tight. _Oh god._ He thought as he cringed internally.

"You know," Watson said, itching his upper lip, " I think I saw the three bears down stairs, if you'd like to greet them."

Watson laughed again as he spoke. Holmes opened his eyes and narrowed his gaze at the grinning Watson, though, even the great detective blinked apon seeing his flatmate. _He looks so..different, without the mustache. Peculiar. Even I find it hard to recognize him.._

"Yes well, if they're there, perhaps I'll invite them into your room and they'll rip off that newly exposed upper lip of yours." His dark eyes countered, and then he quietly laughed. Watson shrugged off the remark, and simply made his way back to his room.

Once there, Watson sat down in the chair that a watchful Mrs. Hudson and Holmes himself, had long occupied during his illness, and there Watson stayed, quietly trying to remember whatever the bloody hell he dreamed about during that time. He didn't like to admit it to anyone close to him- but reliving those…_dreams?; memories?-_ was extremely close to utterly terrifying for the good doctor.

Although it took a few moments for Watson to take notice, small water droplets sped his eyes to focus and before him; Sherlock Holmes had entered _his _closet once more, coming back out mere moments later in fashionable, formal suitware. Watson raised in eyebrow in belated annoyance.

"No cross-dressing tonight, Goldilocks? No rouge? Abit of power?"

Holmes only waved Watson's questions away with a ghostly hand, and began buttoning up one of Watson's jackets.

"Oh don't be silly Watson. Why do such low-brow antics at such a formal dinner? Its looked down apon."

Watson simply rubbed a hand across his face in reply. "Yes, because _that's_ what I was worried about- being looked down apon. I'm glad that's been clarified."

Watson rose from his chair, and grasped Holmes' arm as the now golden, shimmering detective, tried to leave through the door.

"Holmes, I can't let you wear that."

Holmes quickly looked down and glanced about himself.

"Why ever not? It seems highly appropriate."

"But _my_ clothes-?" Watson began, but Holmes quickly finished-

"Come now Watson, you know how remarkably dirty my clothes are at the moment." (Possibly from a week of Mrs. Hudson tending to Watson and refusing to touch Holmes' clothing; fearing she might transmit more germs.)

Holmes went on: "And besides, you have plenty of suits. You being the debonair _ladies' man_."

Sarcasm was not a foreign language to the good doctor. He raised two fingers and pitched the bridge of his nose, thinking.

"Fine. Fine. Sure. Whatever. Just- just." Holmes raised an eyebrow curiously at Watson. Watson solemnly sighed.

"You are right- the suit _is_ appropriate."

"Good." Holmes smiled, trying once more to leave but Watson's steel grip remained on his arm, causing a strange sensation to sprint down the back of his neck in a tingle_. Probably the remaining chemicals of the dye_, he concluded.

"You, however, are _not_."

Holmes opened his mouth to object, but Watson quickly continued on.

"You're, you're a mess quarter -half-," Watson paused for a moment. "_All_, the time. You're not dinner proper. If you're going to go through this..I'll have to.."

Watson quickly let go of Holmes in a huff.

"I'll have to teach you more proper etiquette than that. And we've only got mere-" Watson glanced at the clock apon his wall. "God, no, we'll have to leave in a twenty minutes; and that's not counting the carriage ride- it's nearly five- God, _why_ must you take so incredibly long to get ready?"

. Holmes raised a finger at Watson's question but suddenly Mrs. Hudson walked in the room, her hand flying to her mouth.

"What…?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Watson quickly said, shrugging on his own coat over his nice shirt. "Thank you very much for all your errand running."

She quickly chuckled into her palm, her dark eyes on the blonde detective, "M-mister Holmes?"  
"Yes, _Nanny_. Don't rub it in."

"So _that's_ what the bottle was for?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow curiously. "What else did you think I'd use such a substance for?"

"Well," Mrs. Hudson said timidly, trying not to laugh in the process. She kneaded her skirt between her soft hands. "I thought you might try to drink it, or something-"

Now it was _Watson_'s turn to burst out into laughter.

"Yes, yes, you're all _very_ funny. Fine- let's just leave." Holmes said flatly.

_A while later.._

Although Watson had done over proper manners time and time again- the smartest man in London just wasn't getting the entirely of the whole process. Eventually, only one last thing come to the slowly deflating doctor's mind as they walked up the beautiful path and to the ornate, golden knocker door.

"Holmes, just- remember to at least excuse yourself. Got it?"

"Yes, yes, I will Watson. Would you calm down?"

"I _am_ calm!-" suddenly the door flew open to revel the gorgeous Mrs. Gladstone, dressed delightedly in a red dress.

"Mr. Ho-" Holmes quickly cut her off.

"_House_." He said, placing a one hand on his chest. He then clasped Watson's shoulder. "And this is my friend Dr. _Wilson_."

Natalie blushed cutely, motioning for the men to step inside.

"Oh yes, of course."

Walking through the door, Holmes was once more taken away by the lavishness of the rooms. The huge fireplace still was where it was before. The pictures of birds and sculptures of birds. And of course, the giant beasts heads. As impressed as Holmes was- the sight only made Watson feel as _sick_ as he had the few days prior.

"Welcome gentlemen." Mr. Morrlows greeted them, his voice loud and booming from the dinning hall, his hair still graying and his blue eyes- _apparently darker then before_, Holmes took notice. "It is always such a pleasure to have Mrs. Gladstone over and her guests."

His eyes focused on the blonde first. "You are-

"Gregory House." Holmes said with a smile- playing a character much unlike his own, usual demeanor. The older doctor smiled, and Holmes was extremely happy that dying his hair the polar opposite colour paid off.

"Very well." His eyes next focused on the slender brunet. "And you?"

Holmes cringed internally, and nudged his comrade.

"Wilson." Watson answered whistlessly, his eyes meeting only the walls, unable to meet the murderer's eyes, in fear of blind rage taking him. He did promise Holmes he could keep control. "_James_ Wilson."

"Very fine!" Mr. Morrlows clasped his hands together, not reacting to the mentioning of his possible victim's name (as Watson had _hoped_), and then, dinner began.

Sitting down at the huge, bold table, Mr. Morrlows, and another women sat- that Holmes soon learned was the older doctor's friend, and long time maid. Throughout dinner, Holmes discovered that Mr. Morrlows inviting Natalie to dinner wasn't just a kindness. He had known of her presence for quite a while now.

"She was the," his smile seemed to widen for a moment, "beautiful woman, that I would often see standing by the docks here. It was a great surprise and honor to welcome her in." _Oh God,_ Holmes thought realizing what the elder doctor's smile actually meant,_ not only did he possibly kill her husband, but he wants Mrs. Gladstone for himself? I hope Watson doesn't take notice of that…so very awkward._

But, besides noticing the cleverly hidden gun in his jacket pocket, it seemed to be all Holmes could possibly find out about the wealthy doctor. That was until…

Through Holmes subtle and getting-no-where-dinner conversation/questioning- Watson had remained very quiet, his blue eyes scanning the room every once and a while, to keep from getting too rude. Suddenly Watson's eye caught sight of an object he didn't think he'd see ever again. The cane James had made for him, standing perfectly still and well-taken care of in a case just along the beautifully furnished walls. Watson suddenly clutched the table cloth- though no one seemed to take any notice- except Holmes.

Holmes quickly asked about desserts to keep the attention.

"Indeed.." said Mr. Morrlows, though his dark blue eyes stared hard at Watson, and then he excused himself to see to the dessert trays. As soon as he left, Holmes got up to use the bathroom, only to have his sleeve gripped by Watson. Watson's blue eyes narrowed and quickly Holmes excused himself from the ladies around the table.

_This is bad_, Holmes thought to himself, turning down a long hallway decorated in masterfully painted pieces and classic adornments. _He's getting more and more_- suddenly Watson appeared in front of him- one hand balled in a fist of rage against the wall, leading heavily. He slowly raised his glare to Holmes.

"So what do you propose we do? That is, considering he doesn't kill us while dessert is being served."

"I am working on that, Holmes replied, trying to desperately look over the doctor's shoulder to see the bathroom door-"I just suppose you keep going on about your business, and try not to make a fool of yourself."

"A fool-," Watson's voice raised but he quickly lowered it as he said, "A fool of myself? You're the one asking the suspicious questions!"

"Yes, well I suppose it's best I be the one shot, you than, anyway." Holmes quickly stopped himself short- but it was too late. It had all just came out in quite a rush.

That took Watson off guard as well and he stopped.

"Best _you_ be shot? Holmes, what do you possibly mean by that?" His blue eyes iced over to the detective's.

Holmes continued on, not meeting Watson's glare. _He's getting much too angry, I'll have to distract him with…something.._

"Watson my dear fellow, you help save _lives_. I simply," Holmes quickly picked some lint off of himself, "-I simply help people find their lost shoes."

Watson raised an eyebrow. _How unusual of Holmes to degrade himself_. He reached out and gripped Holmes' shoulder.

"Holmes." Watson began sternly. "You catch _murderers_."

"Ah, but in that my dear Watson," Holmes said, raising a slender hand and removing Watson's touch from his jacket. "I am still only helping to grant justice for the deceased."

Holmes quickly moved around his partner, and completed his trip to the bathroom. Sitting back down at the table however, Watson seemed all the most agitated. But luckily, Holmes had an idea- but before it came into play, he noticed Watson quickly drop his fork most intentionally, and he then too, dove under the table.

_Dammit Watson! Our conversal earlier was suppose to keep you somber, not in a killing mood!_

"Watson," Holmes whispered in a _very _quick fashion, gripping the end of the knife his flatmate was holding in his own hand, making his pulse do a funny flutter in his clever wrist, "Allow me to _ratify_ the situation you are now attempting before you. You see, I am not medical man, but even if you are to stab the man before you along the waist, leg, foot- blood would spew everywhere and he would give a most noticeable howl of pain. Also, you would be trying to kill the dear friend of the lovely lady to the left of him- and be killing in the presence of the beautiful Mrs. Gladstone."

Watson turned an angry blue eye to Holmes in the darkness 'neath the table. "Holmes-"

Holmes continued, holding up his other hand in the darkness for Watson to pause.

"If you are still not convinced of how very stupid this very idea of yours is- then allow to me present to you the fact that even if you continue attacking this man, whom has a hidden pistol in his jacket pocket and also a trained solider, would easily shoot and _kill_ you faster than you can possibly swing that knife into his chest."

Watson sighed so quietly it was almost non-existent, except to the adept ears of Sherlock Holmes.

"And _don't_ play it off like you were just picking up your knife." Holmes concluded sternly.

"Then what do you suggest I _do_?" Watson clenched out fastly, between white teeth.

"I suggest that you let go-" Holmes tried to pull the knife away from Watson's grip, but it wouldn't budge. He tried again- "_let go_-" Watson finally withheld his grasp- "of the knife, and we go back up to the table like civil men, before the other start to wonder if we are having our own party down here ourselves."

Watson hissed and then began to raise to his chair, when he turned back to Holmes.

"And _then_?"

"Find some way to keep your self occupied so you don't think to strike the man again! I swear to you Watson, whatever form of revenge you want, you can gladly take, but here is nor the time or place."

"_Occupied_." Watson murmured, "as you say."

Both of the men arising from the depths of the table, Holmes quickly smiled and apologized to the curious eyes staring at him from about the table- it was very hard to find their silverware in the dark. There was a hint of silence, and the group continued eating their ravishing meal, forks and knives tinkling and clicking amongst the china plates. Watson himself sat very still, one hand clench on his fork, pulling food into his mouth- the other placed along his drinking glass, full of wine.

Once more, Holmes began his idea of a plan.

"So sir, I have just noticed you live rather close to the harbor. Lovely time here?"

"Oh yes." The maid responded, placing the dessert plates around the table. "Beautiful, 'cept for that messy storm not long before."

"Ah yes, it was rather," Holmes pulled at his shirt collar, suddenly feeling abit hot. "Miserable."

He quickly began again, this time, setting his eyes to Walter's.

"So do you happen to know the ship routes?"

"Indeed-" Walter began, but Holmes wasn't done.

"So then you know the trade ships?"

"Yes." Walter raised a graying eyebrow. "Why do you ask..?"

"Ah, I just noticed you're wonderful displays of wealth about your home, and so I must inquire; is it from the trade ships?"

Walter quickly folded his hands, taking a slow sip from his glass.

"Yes, I do trade here, but my wealth came from my wife's family- and odds and ins from the profession as a doctor."

Holmes' eye for detail was the only one taking notice of Watson's ever tightening composure to whatever the gentleman said- and the fact that the doctor was taking a drink out of his glass each time Walter spoke as well- rather like a drinking game of ignorance. _Ah, so he changed his story around did he. Interesting.._ Holmes thought._  
_  
"Ah I see! And a very kind doctor at that, no doubt. Thank you once more for this get together."

"Ah, _anything _to meet with Mrs. Gladstone and her friends." Walter's eyes focused clearly on Natalie, whom looked rather uncomfortable, and only keep nibbling at her dish in response, smiling politely once done with her bite. Watson quietly cleared his throat, filling his glass with more wine, and Holmes continued.

"So then with the trade ships, I must ask, do you own a ship?"

"Ah yes-"

"So you're a sailor?" Holmes asked, the wheels of his mind turning, clashing together.

"No, no-" the older gentleman laughed, pulling a napkin to his lips. "I just wanted something other to bide my time with. I am more solider than sailor."

"Ah," Holmes pulled his hands together under the table. "May I inquire where you ship is docked?"

"Why, right here in the London harbor."

"Truly?" Holmes smiled.

"Indeed! It's the good ship _Bountiful_, it tis. My pride and joy. I don't take her out very often, but-" his blue eyes seemed to roll like waves, forcing a tranquil feeling across the table. Luckily it bounced off of Holmes' stone demeanor. "I have a soft spot for the sea."

"Not more than as a solider should, though?" Holmes joked, elbowing Watson whom simply took a deeper mouthful of wine in response. The older doctor chuckled good naturally.

"No, no. The only thing I love more than such days, is _gambling_." Holmes nodded, and slyly raised a clever dark eye to Watson- his calculating eyes taking in the subtle noticed of red apon his cheeks- though from his rapid drinking or his own addiction for gambling- Holmes wasn't sure.

Arising slowly from the table, Mr. Morrlows went into the kitchen, and came back. He then laid a very clean cut deck of cards against the dark mahogany table, and pulled a card, the joker card, his dark blue eyes grinding into Watson's trembling form. Watson quickly gulped down the rest of the wine in his glass, some of it rolling down his chin in the mad rush of it.

"You are gambler, lad?"Mr. Morrlows smiled, _twisting his mouth into a war born scowl, his blue eyes melting and burning, burning though the iris and forming a sickly green colour. A cigar suddenly lilting in his mouth, smoke bellowing from it-  
_  
His heart in his mouth, and his hand desperate for a weapon, Watson quickly stood up from the table, both of his hands holding himself up from falling completely over- the silverware shaking and _clink_ing together from the sudden force.

"E-excuse me!" And then Watson bolted for the door. In utter surprise, all wide eyes turned to Holmes, who simply shrugged, and made for the door as well- but not before _excusing_ himself.

Stumbling quickly out of the beautiful bird decorated doors, Watson couldn't keep his balance no matter how impossibly hard he tried. Holmes followed behind, thanking and waving good night to the Morrlows, and Natalie, and then turned and chuckled quietly at the scene before him- Watson, pressing himself against on the bird statues, breathing shallowly through his nose. Watson's eyes' desperately tried to focus on his hand as he held it out in front of him- but it quickly split into three separate images.

"It is not like you to skip out on a game of cards, Watson." Holmes chuckled, pulling his sandy; wind whipped hair from out of his eyes.

Watson bluntly ignored him.

"Strange," he slurred out, "…I don't recall not being able to hold my alcohol this terribly bad.."

Holmes chuckled quietly again, clasping his hand on Watson's shoulder and guiding him further down the front yard path, laughing each time Watson tripped or stumbled about himself. Trying to direct his footsteps along the ground, Watson could feel himself tipping- as if the world wanted him to fall.

"Well, I'm not sure of that, but you certainly know how to make a _show_ of yourself." Holmes responded, occasionally gripping Watson's shirt tighter when the man lean too far to one side, or the other.

"Ha!" –Watson hiccuped- "That's the pot calling the kettle black, eh?"

Holmes simply gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. "And yet here I am- the _only_ one able to support himself on his own two feet, between us, that is."

Watson suddenly shrugged himself out from under Holmes hand, and skirted aways up the path, nearly falling over.

"I can _so_ stand on my own two feet, thank you very-" Watson abruptly had to stop speaking, for he had to throw out his arms as he swayed- multitasking seemed incredibly _hard_ for the poor doctor.

Holmes laughed louder at this- walking slowly towards Watson, reaching out to grip his wrist. "Right mate, and when your face hits the stone covered path, I'll be sure to give you a congratulatory _bandage_."

Watson couldn't respond. He just suddenly turned extremely pale and slowly wrapped one of his arms across his stomach. Noticing his blue eyes suddenly widening, Holmes had to strain to hear what Watson said next, in a hushed whisper, slowed down by his drunken speech- and _shame_.

"Holmes…I think I'm going to be _sick_.." The detective quickly steered Watson into the grass, and gave him a soft, playful kick so that the doctor would fall to his knees.

"I suppose you won't mind ruining Mr. Morrlows beautiful garden, would you?" Watson simply pressed his face into the plants and stalks, breathing shallowly.

"Not-, one-_bit_." Watson then leaned further over, twisting, and vomited- trying to be as silent as possible whilst doing so, to save any dignity he possessed.

Holmes stood guard over his friend- "I suppose you wouldn't want that congratulations _now_?"- and simply chucked to himself.

_Ah, I should have known better than to bring Watson here whilst he's recovering from his operation. The loss of blood must have gotten him intoxicated quite easily. Stubborn fool. And yet I __listened__ to him! I should have seen it coming- Watson doing whatever he could to escape the realty of the situation- occupation in the form of a drinking game-. I really shouldn't laugh at his expense- but it's right funny!_ Holmes thought over to himself. _I'll perhaps never seen Watson drunk again!_

Watson coughed and it snapped Holmes from his thoughts. "Finished there, Watson?"

Watson simply mumbled into the grass. Holmes sighed. "And to think, that lovely dinner, gone to waste."

"'robably _poisoned_." Watson snapped back with a slur. Holmes laughed again as the crisp London air picked up around him._  
_

"No, I think that's more aquatinted to _Nanny's_ doing. Besides, Mr. Morrlows was a perfect gentleman."

Watson made a low noise in his chest before he responded. "So..what you're saying is..that Mr. Morrlows _isn't_ the man that tried to kill an entire army camp?"

Holmes' brows furrowed in surprise. "Well..I didn't say _that_."

Holmes quickly glanced around for a change in subject, and it came- with the heavy, hooven footsteps of a cab. Turning and moving away down the path, Holmes hailed it down. When he returned, he found Watson dry heaving into the grass and Holmes quickly panicked, pulling Watson up from the ground. Lacing one of Watson's arms across Holmes' shoulders, they made their way towards the cab- but Watson only moaned and pressed himself into Holmes, pleading to be left there- the motion of even walking making him feel more ill.

"I know, I know," Holmes responded, "- believe me, _I know_- but I shan't leave you there writhing. You'll end up cracking a rib."

Although very ill, his eyes shut tight, Watson still managed out: "How the bloody hell did _you_ know that?" to which Holmes only chuckled more, causing Watson to moan again as the rumble passed through his body as well.

"Ah, well, I do recall _you_ telling that to _me_ whenever you found me in such a state."

Holmes opened the door, and helped Watson inside. Paying off the driver, Holmes sat to one side of the carriage as the poor doctor pressed himself towards the door's opposite side; gasping, coughing, and trying hard not to be sick again. The driver glanced back to the odd pair, his eyes' narrowing at Watson's struggles.

"Oy, he goin' to be 'lright? It'll cost extra if he's 'ick in 'ere!" Holmes quickly nodded to the driver, and grasped Watson's wrists, pulling him to the same side of the cab with him.

"Terribly sorry my dear fellow- it's going to be a rather long drive, and obviously your body does not wish to stay up, so I suggest you lie down."

Watson glanced 'round, and found no place to do such a thing. "W-where ever do you m-mean?"

Apon realizing the notion Holmes was providing for his comrade, and strange feeling occurred in the detective's chest- some type of flickering _warmth_; which made it's way up Holmes' throat and to his cheeks, causing a rare blush to sit there. Thanking his lucky stars, Holmes knew it was much too dark in the cabin to see such a thing- but he tilted his head anyways, so his light hair covered his face.

"I-I suppose here,-" Holmes' motioned to his lap, "be there no other proper place.." the detective let his sentence die off. _Get a hold of yourself man! This..this…this..feeling..means nothing! It's absolutely nothing- I mean, how positively obscure! The whole very idea, and to think, I mean- it's just so.._Holmes stuttered around in his skull.

"A-are you sure..?" Watson coughed, clutching his stomach. Holmes only nodded again, the blush deepening.

"Of- of course, old boy." Suddenly Holmes' heart started to pound more noticeably in his chest. _What the..?_

Slowly, Watson positioned himself accordingly, curling himself into a ball- his feet pressed against the opposite carriage door, and his head resting in Holmes' lap. Watson gave a contented sigh of relief- his stomach immediately more stable. Holmes was doing everything he possibly could to _not _let Watson know how harshly his heart was going- nearly leaping out of his chest.

After a few minutes of silence, Holmes could feel Watson's breathing deepening- the alcohol having a soporific effect already in his thin blood stream. Occasionally the doctor would hiccup, and Holmes had to dig his nails into his own flesh to stop himself from chuckling. The cab moved on, making it's way down the late-night London streets. Holmes watched in a curious way as Watson started to shiver and he desperately wish for something to cover him up with.

_How particular..this entire night.._Holmes thought to himself, _and what an odd feeling_. He continued pondering to himself, and before he even knew it- he was stroking his fingers gently through Watson's hair. Apon realization, Holmes _froze_- an icy terror leading his veins. His eyes first flew down to Watson's sleeping form- but Watson continued dozing on, apparently unaware, or simply uncaring, of Holmes' sudden intrusion into his personal space.

He then turned his brooding eyes to the cabby diver, who also seemed not to notice. But a strange, paranoid effect came to Holmes', nearly making him claustrophobic- as if all the eyes of London were suddenly peeking in to oogle at him. _P-prehaps I am also the one who is drunk…or this is just some queer dream, or..or.._

Holmes' glanced out the window, and moved his nimble, pale hand gracefully with the shadows, running his fingers through Watson's soft hair as they passed, keeping perfect time; so that even if the diver looked; he couldn't possibly see. _What does this mean…?_

**Ten Points To Gryffindor to whomever can find the ****Sweeney Todd**** reference in this chapter, and any OTHER reference to any ****other**** show I may have added too! ;)**

**So sorry for the delay AGAIN folks..**


	4. Chapter 4

**~*The Chapter Where Holmes Monologues To Himself*~****  
**

When Watson opened his eyes, he thought he had surely gone to hell. Everything was a blur of pain, and heat, and sickness. He hurt from his skull, down to his ribs, to the balls of his feet- and for some odd reason, his cheek. Though, as he tried to recall getting into a fight and taking a blow to the face, he couldn't muster one. Moaning, he pulled himself upright, the softness of the mattress under him feeling like an angel's touch. Motion still made his stomach churn, but at least his bedroom was dark, and cool. So dark in fact, he wasn't sure what time it truly was. But that didn't matter to Watson now.

"_Christ…"_ Watson muttered, placing one hand on the side of his throbbing head and squeezing his eyes tight. His heart, though beating softly, sounded like gunfire in his head, the sound splitting and bouncing off his brain, only creating more pressure with no where to go..

The aching doctor laid back down, licking his lips to try to get some of the dry, cotton mouth taste out of his mouth, but not before a single beam of light stuck Watson's eye, causing a delayed reaction of cringing that felt like pins were being jabbed into Watson's spine. Even closing his eyes didn't flush out the small, intricate beam. Although feeling terribly queasy, Watson arose and braced himself against his nightstand, still very shaky and weak, and studied where the light beam was coming from.

To Watson's own blearily amazed eyes, the light beam was pinned from one of the wide window's, and Holmes had apparently altercated some intricate system of wire and small tubes, coming together at the tip with a magnifying glass, that was positioned just so. That the small crack of sun from the specifically altered curtains would hit and expand, lighting a little note; suspended in midair on a fragile string. Watson fumbled at he reached up, taking the note in his shaking, clammy hands.

_Good morning, my dear Watson, if it be morning when you awaken. Last night was a thorough success, so us altercating our appearances wasn't to waste; though if you remember anything particular about it, please inform me- I can explain. And do look around yourself; sense the darkness? I suppose someone has to be gentle to you. From my own past experiences, I suggest you start drinking water immediately- as much as you can swallow. Believe me._

_P.S.  
_  
_**Boats**__, Watson!_

Watson slowly read over the note, his eyes trying to smoothly scan through Holmes' intricate, yet messy scribble. _Boats_? Watson thought, kiting his bows' together weakly, not to strain the muscles in his head more than he could withstand. And then, gaining no further knowledge from Holmes' note, he pulled the curtains across the rest of the window, and flopped back down on the bed, Immediately regretting such harsh motion. Watson closed his eyes, pulled the cooler side of the pillow over his neck, and tried his best to fall back asleep.

_The night before, apon arriving at Baker Street…._

Pulling Watson out of the carriage and back into the safely of flat 221 A took more strategizing than Holmes had originally planned. Watson was still poised in his lap, Holmes had let the time simply slide by, _like…like…, _Holmes glanced down from the shadow's of the cabby watched the shadows caress Watson's face_… how easily Holmes' thin fingers fell through Watson's soft hair_, _or how Watson's warmth gave the most unique feeling all throughout the detective's body. How, suddenly, Holmes was much more fascinated with Watson's deep breathing against his own…_ Realizing his strange thoughts, Holmes quickly chided himself, and gently used his arm to pull Watson into an upright poised- although, by now the heavily intoxicated doctor was deeply asleep.

Coining off the cab driver, Holmes pulled one of Watson's arms across his own thin shoulders, and tried walking slowly to the door, only to stagger up the path and fall. Luckily Holmes agilely positioned himself to take the impact, and he simply laid Watson's sleeping form as carefully as he could against the stone steps. _It appears he's lost quite abit of weight_, Holmes thought, fiddling with the key in the darkness of the crisp London night.

Once the door was opened, Holmes walked in a little ways, cupping his hands and calling about for Mrs. Hudson- but she was no where to be found. _I swear_, Holmes thought turning back to Watson, _where that witch goes this late at night…probably to go procure the souls of young orphans.._

Holmes quickly made his way back to the sleeping doctor, trying his best to move him inside as discreetly and gently as possible- but Holmes soon found he hadn't the strength without once more causing some sort of injury to the recovering Watson in one way, or another. Holmes tried sliding his arms under Watson's but it was soon clear that without Watson at least halfway using his strength, the feat would be impossible. Watson was stronger after all.

_Dammit Watson! Though granted I didn't expect this to happen, I can't say I was prepared. Yet here we are…and I still let you come to night. Why did I listen to you?_ Holmes shifted Watson once more, suddenly paranoid about Watson's injuries and his chest being pressed against the stone steps. The wind was beginning to pick up, and Watson was beginning to shake. Holmes zeroed in- _alcohol; depressors: slowing down heart, blood rate, temperate dropping. Adding onto his low blood count, and his body throwing up anything it could have used for energy, low energy level, plus contusion to possible rib batteration…Calm down, calm down. You just need to wake him up. But how..?  
_  
Holmes sat down on the steps, and tapped Watson lightly on the cheek. Nothing.

He then tapped abit harder. _Damn_. Nothing. Holmes ducked down a little, carefully gripping Watson's shirt and giving him a shake.

"Come on Watson." Watson gave a short grumble, but never came around.

"Watson, it's not above me to leave you out here. I'll do it!" Holmes threaten, but to no avail. He simply readjusted his grip and shook Watson's harder. The detective sighed. And then flexed his knuckles carefully, watching the pale moon light shine of each thin finger. _I'm sorry chap._

Holmes drew back his hand, and punched Watson as hard as he could across the face, but to Holmes complete and utter surprise, Watson made no reaction. Holmes quickly glanced at his fist, and flexed once more, feeling the sting from his strike resonating up his arm. _How much _did_you drink? That..or I need to work on my punch.._

Holmes waved away the idea, and sprinted inside, his dark eyes scanning.

_Something, something, something, well if he's already cold, then him being colder can't possibly be any worse. It won't sober him up, but it'll have to awaken him, at least._

Holmes made his way to the kitchen, whipping out a bowl and filling it with water, and then pulled the container outside. He slowly raised it over his head, and then poured it on Watson, whom finally, (and to the delight of Holmes) awoken abruptly, suddenly clawing at the flat's steps, shuddering into the pavement. Leaving the bowl behind, Holmes scooped down and grasped Watson's arm, pulling him to him feet, although Holmes was litterally being the entire support that stopped Watson from falling down and smashing his face on the steps.

"H-h-h-" Watson trembled out, shivering, and turning a bewildered blue eye to the sheepish detective, who really had no way to explain his actions at the moment.

"Yes, yes, I know, but come on- inside, before you catch your death… that I might have just given you." Holmes chuckled a little, and led Watson inside, gratefully closing the door behind them, and depositing the freezing doctor onto the doctor. Holmes quickly stroked up the fire, and lit the room, hoping he didn't cause more damage than he was trying to avoid.

"I'm very sorry Watson," Holmes said, returning to his friend's side. Watson simply continued coughing while large shudders and shakes contorted his body. Watson leaned to one side, and Holmes immediately took notice of what he wanted to do, but caught his shoulder, feeling Watson's shivering even quake Holmes' own arm.

"No, I know you want to lay down," Holmes quickly pressed one of his hands to his face, "God, remind me never to let you drink. Again." _If he lays down and falls asleep in wet clothes- clothes that made a situation even worse that I created, Mrs. Hudson will murder me by all counts- not to mention how possibly dangerous it would be for Watson to sleep in such conditions. I might not be able to wake him up again.._

"Ever." Holmes finished, though he could tell that Watson was much too far-gone to have _any _idea Holmes was even speaking to him. If anything, all the doctor was thinking about was sleep. Watson was unresponsive and his eyes dulled over. Holmes quickly undid Watson's shirt with nimble fingers, and tossed it to the ground, where Gladstone simply sniffed at it. _God, what will Nanny think when she comes home to clothes thrown everywhere..  
_  
Holmes then undid his, (or more so, Watson's) own shirt, sliding out of the sleeves and then helped Watson back into it. The change seemed to help.

"I know it's not too terribly much, but it's dyer, and warmer, I suppose." Holmes said, trying to be supportive.

"If it helps, I can't say I wouldn't have done the actions you did tonight- and even then, with you being entirely _decimated_, you pull it off quite well. Probably much better than I would have. You do have that kind of charm about…" Holmes abruptly stopped talking, and switched gears in his mind.

"That reminds me, we just left Mrs. Gladstone abruptly there." Holmes helped Watson lay out, removing his shoes and socks but continued on happily to himself-, "Weapon of a woman, she is. I'm sure we'll be hearing form her bright and early. Though, we shan't blame her- I imagine it must be _hell _being trapped with a person- even as sinister as this General fellow you speak of-," Holmes quickly grabbed a blanket from a linnet closet and brought it out to Watson, "-that is so obviously in some kind of lust for her. Much harder to deal with-, than, let's say, I imagine a person being in love with someone who couldn't replicate such feelings back would…be."

Holmes stopped talking as he covered Watson up. He slowly turned his head towards the fire, and watched the smoldering wood piece being consumed, and felt that he could ultimately relate. It was like some type of fire was burning him from the inside out..Holmes quickly gripped his fingers through his gold hair and sank down to his knees, pressing his back against the couch. He sat there for a long time, his head between his knees, simply thinking..

"Evidence learned tonight: Mr. Marrlows has a deceased wife: the ring around his finger, worn and full of ware- and no mention of her without past tense in word play, whom he claims to have gain such wealthy status from- changing his story from whence last we met, and he claimed to have won it from being a doctor. Then there is also the subtle reference of the marsh birds with stones as a crest, compared to vine vineyards.. The doctor holds true, and matches up to Watson's description of this 'General' man. This man has also served in the very same war, and claimed of having a younger brother, much like the man the 'General' murdered had. Wealth matching up with Mrs. Gladstone's claim of her husband's lost inheritance. But even if the 'General' has achieved all of this, what motives would he possible have for killing young James Gladstone after so many years? Ahh…yes, because of Natalie, of course."

_"_Could it possible be that Mr. Marrlows wants the young woman for himself? Sickening- obviously she'd never allow such a thing, being the spit fire that she is- but to kill off her husband, would that be the dying flame that Marrlows would blow out? Natalie is beautiful, but still…"

Holmes stopped and allowed himself a quick glance at Watson. Everything seemed stable now. No more shivering, or coughing.

"As usual, Watson. You have the grant gift of silence." Holmes chuckled to himself, and he watched the fire die more. Suddenly he had the urge once more to simply run his fingers through Watson's hair, and to save himself, Holmes balled up his fist and repressed, changing thoughts again.

"The only thing that isn't adding up is the suspect's eyes. Gladstone and Watson both agree that his General fellow had _green_ eyes. Emerald, even. But how could Mr. Morrlows be the same man, with _blue_ eyes? It simply doesn't make any logical sense. There is no way a person's biological genes nor code could change so distinctly and subtly over time. That is too huge color spectrum. Unless, that is, of course, he had some possible _chemical_ way of changing his eyes..but it's so just…_so_…

"I…don't know.." Holmes said softly, staring down at his long, pianists hands.

"Unless..the _bathroom_." Holmes suddenly received the most intriguing idea. Whilst in the bathroom at the Morrlows' home, he noticed an intricate storing selves installed into the mirror, and apon him opening it, he caught glance of two, very small, dipped in, lenses, of things. Holmes vaguely recalled Watson going on about some Sir John Herschel, whom in a footnote of the 1845 edition of the _Encyclopedia Metropolitana_, had made serious talk of corrective eyewear without the need to glasses, had been rehashed by some German fellow, a glass blower presently. _Could it be that with such money, and prestigiousness, Mr. Marrlow had obtained an experimental pair and tried it for himself..?_

Jumping up, and with his ingenious style of chemicals and abit of homemade jelly-like substance, (and a holographic memory of sculpting such tiny pieces) Holmes soon had his own version of Mr. Marrlows peculiar lenses in a matter of an hour. Holmes quickly fashioned up some vast dye, and soaked the jelly into the chemical base, and soon returned with two small, circle like dips. One blue, and one green.

Holmes, though extremely careful, was never one to turn down an experiment, quickly tried on the lens for his own. Although they could not correct anyone with askew vision, they indeed turned his dark eyes a strange shade of black- and also gave Holmes' world a green tint. Pleased, Holmes rushed back out into the sitting room, and another curious idea occurred to him.

_Watson._

_Watson's eye colour is remarkably lighter than my own..and since I know it won't be worn long, or used at all by him..and considering he is completely asleep and wouldn't even know..  
_  
_No_. Holmes thought, _I shouldn't_. But the issue nagged at him, much like Mrs. Hudson did on days when Sherlock refused to eat.

How else is he going to find if the strange lenses worked..?

Carefully, Holmes gentlly lifted up Watson's eyelid, and placed a lens, staring for a only a mere moment before realizing that, yes: this _indeed_ worked. Watson now looked like he had green eyes. _Incredible…  
_

With the experiment finally over, Holmes carefully removed the new coloured lens from Watson's eye, and gave the doctor a gentle shake.

"As always Watson, you are a remarkable aid to me." Holmes said quietly, pulling one of the nearly fully-alseep doctor's arms across his shoulders, "This is no place to sleep in the shape you are in.."

Holmes then turned, and the two made their way up the stairs…

_A few hours later, present time.._

Watson had managed to make it down to the sitting room, a tumbler of ice water in one hand, a hat cover his eyes from the light, as he laid across the couch. He took slips gingerly- careful to not let the ice touch his teeth- everything was painful. Though, as much he didn't want to admit it; the water was making him feel better. He focus his blue eyes, studying the condensation of water droplets across the glass, noticing his hand shaking the glass ever so slightly…._Why am I so very weak?_ Watson thought to himself. The small movement created an interesting reaction of pieces of ice hit together, creating a soft _clinking_ sound.

The front door suddenly opened, and soft footsteps echoed down the hall, causing Watson to flinch painfully as it snapped the door shut with great force. Holmes quickly entered into the room, muttering to himself- his light hair a mess and dark rings under his eyes. The midnight orbs observed the room, and met blue in the twisting mix of light and shadows. Watson curiously noticed a wide smiled take over his flatmate and no word was spoken between them.

Holmes sat down in the opposite facing armchair, crossing his legs and folding one hand under his chin, studying Watson. Watson quickly flicked up the top of his hat, and moved it so his face wasn't covering; thinking it to be rude if he stayed hidden. Holmes after all, did make sure he didn't get into ridiculous trouble last night..

As Watson posited his hat, his bright blue eyes' shone coolly as shadows crawled across the fabrics and pictures along the walls. Holmes watched the light reflect and dull within mere seconds with each wave- _noticing the pupil alighted and iris fade in beautiful waves of dark sapphire to light, ocean blue. It reminded the detective very much of an ocean tide, crashing against a pure white beach. Each time Watson blinked was a complete tragedy to the proceeding world around him; for even a moment of being cut off from such a brilliant specimen of eye colour was…how did he not notice such a phenomenon last night?_

Watson quietly cleared his throat, feeling the scratchiness resting there. Holmes quickly snapped out of his odd, sudden trace of the trick of the light over the doctor's eyes, and watched curiously as Watson took another sip from his glass.

"Water." Watson said quietly, his voice rather hoarse from not talking all day. "Who'd have guessed you'd be giving me advice over.." Watson stumbled awkwardly over the end of his sentence, suddenly realizing that he could have put terrible jeperatedy into Holmes' plan.

Holmes laughed one of his quiet chuckles, "Taking my advice are you? Well, I'm glad for that, at the very least. Walking in, I was worried that you were drinking once more from that tumbler. Gin is also a clear liquor, you know."

His dark eyes watched Watson grimace suddenly and backwash some of his water back into his glass. Even the very _talk _of drinking was enough to make his head scream and his stomach protest.

"That wasn't even funny, Holmes."

"Ah, Watson, you've no idea how very funny that actually was."

"Yes well, now, I can't even drink this."

Watson sighed and rubbed his aching neck carefully and set his glass on the table before them.

"So…do I dare even ask how I was…last night?" Watson whispered out, not wanting to raise his voice.

Holmes laughed loudly this time, and Watson flinched into the cushions.

"You fell asleep rather quickly, so I'd have to say I didn't see _you_ do anything too entirely profane." Holmes continued into a quiet chuckle, but nervousness suddenly nipped at the back of his heels. What if Watson knew what he had done last night? Even if he was only messing with his hair, it was an invasion of personal privacy..

"I see…well…thank you, then, for..uh.." Watson stumbled again awkwardly, and Holmes quickly added a, 'you are very welcome,' to end the moment. Watson then tried again, changing the subject.

"And..you believe the General didn't notice anything..?"

"Not at all. I believe everything went over smoothly."

"And…that note. You mentioned boats?"

"Indeed, Watson. Boats."

"And, may I ask why you inquire this suggestion as relevant.._how_?"

"Oh Watson, boats are entirely relevant," Holmes quickly uncrossed his leg from the other, and stood, as if to prove his point further.

"I saw it in his bathroom." Holmes finished.

Watson could only stare on in bewilderment, and then pulled the palm of his hand over his face. He _wasn't _surprised.

_**Hullo all! I am SO sorry for the delays- I am currently second in command editor to my school's lit. Magazine, and so I am completely swamped in submissions- and it's only the end of the first week of school. Oy vey. Enjoy! I'll update whenever I can.**_  
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